Pâté sounds intimidating—there's something about those accents. But it's really not hard to make!

Pâté sounds intimidating. There’s something about the circumflex over the a, the accent over the e, that adds a sense of mystique. There must be something elaborate and French to do, some mysterious alchemy of careful stirring that creates the rich, smooth mousse that tantalizes in tiny portions on crostini and pricy charcuterie boards.

The truth is that pâté is quite simple to make at home, and requires no specialized equipment beyond a blender or food processor. At a good neighborhood grocery, chicken livers should set you back no more than two dollars a pound; a few cloves of garlic, an onion, butter, a splash of red wine and some vinegar are all it takes to round out a dish that will boldly say, “I definitely know what I am doing, because I am a competent human adult.” What’s more, pâté is the ideal way to eat liver. It may be an acquired taste, but it’s something that you should go out of your way to acquire—like a learned language, or a rare book. The iron-y, gamey taste of liver, the most accessible of all the organ meats, sharpens all that it accompanies. It makes red wine richer and cheeses acid-bright; it can make your conversation wittier with each bite. It can make a lazy, homebound Sunday feel accomplished. “I made pâté yesterday,” you’ll say offhandedly to your coworkers, a knowing look in your eye, as you stride in on Monday confident in the pleasures of your table.

Photo by Talia Lavin

Yes, they're gross. But stay with me, and remove that stringy white stuff.

The only real barrier to creating a great pâté at home is the slightly gory process of cleaning a liver. It involves getting close to your food in a way that other parts of the chicken don’t require. In order to make a tasty and smooth-textured pate, you must remove the connective tissue between the lobes of the liver. You can use a sharp knife, kitchen scissors, or your hands, depending on how messy you’re willing to get in the kitchen. Just be sure to wash your hands thoroughly before and after the cleaning process. (If you have white cabinets like me, be aware that streaking them with liver blood will result in awkward questions unless you clean it up immediately.) While the lobes—which you’ll cook—are smooth and usually a darker color, the connective tissue is stringy and lumpy, and may be streaked with white fat. There may be one or more pieces of connective tissue on each liver, but don’t get impatient. It’s bloody but it’s worth it, and you will emerge triumphant from a process that, let’s face it, isn’t exactly brain surgery. Trim the membranous tissue from the lobes, placing it in a separate bowl so that you don’t confuse it with the meat you plan to cook, and discard afterward.

Once you’ve mastered cleaning liver, you can use these oblong flavor bombs with just about any combination of starches and fats: in an elaborate bolognese; liver, onions, mushrooms and rice in a glorious umami jumble; golden-baked dough pockets with a dab of chopped liver in the center; et cetera. But pâté, the elusive showstopper, will convey a sense of decadence and skill belied by the ease with which you’ll prepare it.

To get started creating your showstopper, take a hefty knob of butter (2-4 tablespoons) and let it melt in a large skillet. As the butter melts, begin to season it: let a few sprinkles of rosemary dapple the foaming butter, a few pinches of salt, and a grind or two of pepper. Then add in two or three cloves of minced garlic, along with a thinly sliced, medium-sized red or yellow onion. Let the onion and garlic mellow in the butter over medium heat, growing aromatic, until the onion has softened and grown translucent. Next, add the liver and a hearty splash each of balsamic vinegar and red wine, along with a few more scatterings of salt and pepper.

Let the livers brown in the liquid, turning them over with a spatula so that both sides are an even color, and the insides remain slightly pink, about two to three minutes on each side. The aroma in your kitchen should be sharp, meaty, with an alliaceous kick; the red wine, balsamic vinegar, and butter combine to form a rich, acidic steam. Turn off the burner and let the livers stand in the liquid for a few minutes, until the liquid has stopped bubbling and cooled slightly. (This might be a good time to watch the Julia Child-Gordon Ramsay smackdown on Epic Rap Battles of History. My experiments have indicated that this is the perfect amount of time before the next step.)

Next, ready the blades. Any blender or food processor will do. Tip the sautéed mixture gently into the basin, using your spatula to scrape up any juices remaining in the pan. (These are crucial, and delicious; don’t neglect them.) Pulse until the pâté looks even, without any lumps. You may need to reach a spoon down into the basin to make sure all the solids are broken down evenly, especially if your milquetoast little blender was advertised with a woman delicately sipping a pink smoothie, unaware of the pungent, winy offal that would soon churn within.

The final step: chill the pâté for at least an hour. (The longer, the better.) If you’re in a hurry to serve to guests, put it in the freezer and give it 30-45 minutes, but it’s best to prepare this dish with time to spare. If you want to really impress your company or the date you’ve finally invited to a home-cooked dinner, cut a baguette or any thin loaf of bread into rounds, brush with olive oil, and broil for a few minutes until they’re toasty and crisp to the touch. Serve the pâté with these crostini, any crackers you have lying around, and a smug, impregnable sense of new accomplishment.